


With His Gentle Touch

by lightsway



Category: Thor - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 19:44:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/678203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightsway/pseuds/lightsway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When she returns from battle, she proudly holds her head high. Only when she can be alone with him does she allow herself any weakness as he cares for her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With His Gentle Touch

When all was taken into account, the magnitude of the battle and the sort of enemies fought, Sif’s wounds were actually quite tame. She was free of broken bones, but returned home smattered with bruises and cuts, a twisted ankle, and a sizable scrape across her thigh that left that bit of her pants in tatters. Even with a slight limp, she walked proudly, her chin held high and shoulders thrown back, having defeated their enemies and come home once again the victor. She smiled as people congratulated her and applauded her return, but one set of eyes saw through the facade she put up.

Behind that smile was the barest wince of pain accompanying each limping step taken; her eyes were bright, but not entirely with the rush of slaying an enemy, but also with fiercely concealed tears of pain that she would not let fall until she was alone and could look at her ankle with no other eyes but her own; her shoulders were pushed back, but not held high, drooping with a weariness only he could see in her posture, for he knew her posture well and when she masked her pain with her pride.

He moved like a shadow, flitting between the people in the crowd, disturbing not even a cloak or the loose hair of a maiden as he deftly left the crowds behind. And it was only her eyes that caught these movements, brief and fleeting, but his path was clear. She followed him with her eyes until at last he disappeared from the room entirely.

It took several minutes to get past everyone, to insist through the calls of ‘Feast! Feast!’ that she was exhausted and injured and that the feast would be just as merry without her presence. Reluctantly they let her excuse herself, and she allowed her feet to take her to the place she knew he would be waiting. She did not bother knocking, since it was the door to her own room she pushed open, and unsurprisingly he sat at the foot of her bed. Long ago had she given him the only other key to her chambers, and she was always pleased when he made use of it.

“You’re hurt,” he said, standing as soon as she pushed the door open. He didn’t try to disguise the concern in his voice as he would have with others around. His worry was laid bare in his tone and in the soft lines that appeared on his brow as he came closer to her, tilting her chin to examine the injuries on her face and neck. He frowned deeper. “And you are feverish.”

“It is nothing,” she insisted, though she didn’t pull from his touch. “The beasts had claws.”

“They made good use of them.”

“Not good enough.” She smiled up at him, and he could only sigh and let his hand drop. “I was not reckless, Loki, do not try to tell me I was.” She stepped away and let her shoulders drop, favoring her leg as she went into the bathing room to get cleaned up. “I have had worse that this. Much worse.”

He stepped quietly behind her, his reflection appearing in the mirror alongside hers, and had she been younger, she would have been surprised at how quietly he appeared there, but she had long since grown used to how easily he could slip up behind anyone. “I know you have, love. It does not mean I do not worry, though. Especially after this.” His hand slipped down to raise her tunic up high, exposing a large scar that ran just under her breasts, leaving behind a raised, jagged, white line of healed flesh. “I so nearly lost you then.”

“I am still here, Loki. With you.” She gazed long at that scar as his fingers ran once along it before letting her tunic drop back around her thighs.

“Quite perfectly so,” he murmured and turned to press his nose against her hair, and, even covered in dirt and sweat, he loved it so. “Your face, darling. You are so warm.”

“You always say that.” She started to step away again, but he held her fast and pressed his hand to her forehead.

“So much more so than usual. Come, let’s get your wounds cleaned and bound. I do not want this fever to be from infection.”

She rolled her eyes, but only for show. There was never a day she would turn down the gentle touch of his hands as he cared for her, even on days when she was not injured. Carefully he helped to undress her, unfastening the clasps that held her tunic together and letting it fall to the ground, and, as she rid herself of her breeches, she could feel his gaze reading each and every scratch, bruise, and nick that littered her body. He had told her once that, if he was not always so sure that she had killed her enemies, he would hunt down each and every one that left a mark on her and slay them himself.

She let him guide her to the bath and help her in, pouring the water in and using his magic to heat it to a temperature he knew she liked. She inhaled sharply through her teeth when the water fell over her wounds, but stayed still as he rolled his sleeves up and, with a wet cloth, began cleaning the dirt and blood from her body. His fingers were gentle even as the rough cloth scrubbed her skin roughly. There was no one she would rather help her in this, so caring and soft did he try to be, and she relaxed as he worked his way up her legs, hips, stomach, breasts, shoulders, and up to her face. He brushed the cloth across her lips, then leaned in to kiss them. “Perfect.”

“I am perfect anyway,” she said with a teasing smile and pressed her lips to his once more.

“Of course you are, love.” He moved his lips to her forehead, holding them there for a long moment, and pulled away frowning. “You should rest.”

She knew him to be right. She nodded, standing slowly, and, with his help, dried herself and slipped into a simple nightdress before making their way back into the room and over to her bed where she lay down, her head on the pillow. He left only long enough to retrieve a salve and some bandaging, and began wrapping up her ankle, his eyes continuously darting to her face and how flushed she looked. When he finished, he moved to lay beside her, putting one arm around her, and, as she rested in the crook of his arm, curled against his side, he placed his hand on her forehead and drew out just enough of his Jotun half to turn his fingers cold to soothe her fever.

“Thank you,” she murmured softly as she closed her eyes. “For everything.”

He kissed her hair. “Only for you, my love.”


End file.
